The Scent Of Your Insides
by oliver.clearwater
Summary: Gary is Ash's world. His world is about to be over. Rated T for alcohol, drugs and suicide references. Angst gift fic for Friggle.


((A/N: This is a dark angst fic for my best friend (she knows who she is, -ahem- FRIGG), and I know she didn't request one, but I thought I'd give her an insight into the mind of the depressed, through the eyes of Ash Ketchum…no flames, please :P ))

It was like a sickening disease that held him close. Like a horrible addiction that had seized him by the throat. Like a terrifying rhythm that only he could hear and feel. But Ash had a reason…a reason he would take to his grave.

His dream now seemed so far away, so impossible. What was the point? Catch a bunch of animals, participate in competitions so similar to dogfights; his world no longer seemed so wonderful and vibrant. It had become a dark place, where the very creatures he had tried to protect from evil-doers were wrecking havoc. Every day, Ash heard on the television of new animal rights groups shutting down another gym, more trainers being arrested. It was no longer a lifestyle; it was a crime.

When his dream plummeted out of the sky like a falling Pidgey, Ash's life did a nosedive along with it. There was no longer joy in his tedious life; Misty and her sisters had moved away, as to keep their gym and entertainment center open; Ash didn't blame them, it was their only means of living.

The world had darkened. There were raids nearly every night, searching for Pokemon that people were harboring. Because of this, Ash had given Pikachu to Brock to hide a long time ago, when the raids had just begun, and now, without his companion, Ash felt more and more alone.

He could no longer rely on his mother; after losing Mr. Mime, her mood also plummeted, and she picked up one of her old unhealthy habits; every night, and sometimes throughout the day also, she would drink herself silly, and fall into a drunken sleep, but, of course, not before giving Ash a piece of her mind, and reminding him of how worthless he was now in the world.

Gary helped very little; he had been very concerned for a while, and had prompted Ash to seek help, or perhaps find a change of scenery from their dark town, and visit friends, go on another journey, but soon enough, Gary stopped.

Once, he had counseled Ash. Once, he had told Ash that what he was doing was wrong. Once, he had told Ash that life was a gift that he should savor; something worth living. Once, Gary saved Ash from doing the unthinkable.

Once, Gary sought out Ash to counsel him. Once, Gary convinced Ash to tell him that what he was doing was wrong. Once, Gary was told that life was a gift that he should savor; something worth living. Once, Gary did the unthinkable.

The event replayed on an endless loop in Ash's mind; Gary sat across from Ash, unusually pale. He stared at Ash, Ash stared at him, but neither saw. Neither could see the pain the other was experiencing.

And in the darkness of the room, Gary mouthed those four words,

"I want to die."

Ash had thought nothing of it, Gary had always liked showing off in any way possible…but, thinking back, Ash should've seen the warning signs.

It was around that time that Gary started drinking. Ash would come to visit, only to be both verbally and physically abused by his childhood friend. If it had been anyone else, Ash would have never taken such treatment. But it was Gary, so he decided it was all right.

The two became distant; Gary only sought out Ash now for sexual favors and money to buy drugs. He'd become so addicted to heroine that he would sob in agony when he didn't have some every few hours. He wore long sleeve shirts at all times, but not around Ash. He seemed to trust Ash with his life, or rather, what was left of it. He didn't seem to mind Ash seeing his punctured veins, the chalky, discolored hue of his skin. Ash minded, however; he cried nearly every night, after seeing his close friend.

Then it happened. It surprised Ash how the events tied together. For the longest time, Ash had been sure Gary would die of an overdose. He was completely wrong. One day, upon receiving a phone call from his friend, completely distraught and delirious, Ash rushed to the house, only to find his friend hanging from the overhead fan.

That was the last day of Ash's life also. For, after he left that room, tears running down his face, breath erratic, Ash left his heart behind, along with Gary's dead corpse. He wouldn't need it anymore anyway.

The day of Gary's funeral, Ash didn't attend; he was too busy tearing out his arteries.

Weeks went by, and the hole Ash had dug was growing progressively larger, and, without a doubt in his mind, he realized that the hole he had been digging would inevitably turn out to be his grave.

Ash secluded himself in his room; he had no friends apart from Misty and Brock, whom he felt far too distant to even think of talking to them; it wasn't their burden to bear, and he wouldn't make it theirs.

Every day, Ash seemed to eat less and less, until he wouldn't develop an appetite at all. His sleeping patterns had gone through the roof; on one night he could sleep for several hours undisturbed, and other nights, he could get no sleep at all.

The morning of his seventeenth birthday rolled around, but there was no emotion, no indication that he had lasted so long in such a miserable place. He had nothing to say he had done during his seventeen years of living, because he had died a year earlier, and had spent the entire year in a zombie like state. That night, Ash had a feast; he drank vodka to his heart's content, and devoured the main course; two bottles of the strongest sleeping pills he'd come across, along with pain killers and medication he'd stolen from his neighbor, that didn't allow vomiting. There was no way it would go wrong, but even if it did, he'd go by some other means, no matter what; he wasn't going to stay around, no matter what his body was going to try once he lost consciousness.

Ash didn't bother writing a will of some sort; he had nothing left to give up, and his friends would forget about him anyway; there was no use in remembering him.

It was just as the first bottle of pills began to come into effect, when his door creaked open, and in his haze of drowsiness, he saw the terrified face of Brock. The thought of his only friend intervening was impossible. Brock couldn't be there. He was still in his hometown, tending to his siblings while his good-for-nothing father drank and screwed around with random women. Brock didn't have time for Ash; he had more important things to think of than his friend, who was drowning in his own misery. He couldn't be there.

But Ash was wrong. Brock had interrupted his second attempt to leave the horrible place that he was forced to call home, and the cycle would continue, as it had started with Gary, and moved onto Ash, it would surely move onto Brock, and continue to spread like an incurable virus.

Acting quickly, Brock took Ash's head in his hand, holding it up towards the light. Ash could only stare in a pitiful emptiness; he'd lost the feeling in his body, and it was as if he were staring out the eyes of someone else. Next thing Ash knew, Brock's finger had made it into the back of his throat, and a fiery sensation flowed up his throat, covering the floor in thick vomit; half-digested pills in a puddle of vodka and stomach acid.

Air flowed, strained, through Ash's lungs, heaving every breath with difficulty, with pain. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He was supposed to be lying upon the hardwood floor, curled up as if asleep, with no warmth in his empty body...but instead he lay in his own vomit, in the arms of his only friend.

In the haze of Ash's mind, he could only stare up at Brock's concerned face, watch as tears leaked from Brock's eyes, raining upon Ash's face as the ex-gym leader sobbed, whispering incoherently to his old friend.

"Ash...this can't happen," Brock coughed, his voice thick and constricted as he attempted to stifle yet another sob. "Not you too!"

But Ash could no longer move, no longer give an indication that he could hear his friend, nor tell him that this could indeed happen, and that it would, and that it was happening at that very moment. Ash could only stare blankly as Brock sobbed in agony over his dying friend.

"Why? What're you doing this for? This never should've happened." Brock screamed, pulling Ash close into his chest to sob into the raven locks, his fingers curling through that which had once been silky, but now was straw-like and brittle; filthy and unkempt.

Though he'd thrown up half of his overdosage, the other half had been digested completely, and as his eyes fell closed to an eternal sleep, Ash forced out little over a whisper,

"Sorry."

Brock sobbed, cursing everything he could think of, his arms tight around Ash, refusing to let go of the corpse that would soon grow cold.

And so the cycle would continue.

((A/N: Okay, if you people flame this, I'll be fucking pissed; I don't wanna hear, 'that can't happen' or 'depression isn't like that'. I know all about that shit. Think I don't? TRY ME.

Anywho, I was in that sort of mood a while back and finally decided to finish it. :) ))


End file.
